A Murder Among Friends

by Ramona Richards

  Aaron lay on his back and pointed at a cluster of cumulus clouds. “What do you see?”

  Maggie studied them. “A group of mean old men.”

  Aaron snickered. “Must be book critics.”

  She laughed. “Not yours, then. They loved your last Judson.”

  Aaron was silent a few moments. “Do you love Judson?”

  Maggie turned on her side and rested one hand on his chest. “Yes. But I don’t think you’re him.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Maggie’s pen paused over the checkbook, and she frowned.

  Aaron as Judson. Fletcher as Judson. Was she blurring the lines? Was she assuming things about Fletcher based on what she knew of Judson? She’d certainly studied Aaron’s novels as if they were part of life itself, a part of him. She’d even used them in a paper on modern heroes during her senior year at college. Were even her memories of Aaron colored by his fictional hero? Had she placed her trust in Fletcher blindly because of Judson? Because of Aaron?

  “I’m not Judson.” He’d said it a dozen times this week. So who was he, really? She stared down at the bills in front of her. “For that matter,” she whispered, “who was Aaron? Really?”

  Someone, she thought suddenly, who had hidden sixty thousand dollars in my office. She pushed her chair back a bit and pulled open the two bottom drawers of her desk. She rarely used them, and most of the files were old records for the retreat that she would eventually put in storage. She kept as much as possible on the computer, and some of the papers dated back to the start of the retreat. Past applications, records of past residents, old receipts from the caterers, details on the escrow account.

  She ran her fingers across the tabs in the right-hand drawer, but saw nothing unusual. In the one on the left, a file near the back had no label, and she pulled it out. She opened it with a snap, then stopped, paging slowly through the papers it held. They were copies of letters canceling Aaron’s magazine subscriptions and closing his credit card accounts. Each letter had a note in Aaron’s handwriting on it: “Keep until 12/15,” or “Destroy after 12/1.” Toward the back was a slip of paper with a shipping address in Vermont and the paperwork for setting up a corporation in Toronto. As Maggie flipped through it, a small card fell, facedown, out on the desk. She turned it over.

  It was her Social Security card.

  Maggie froze, staring at the card. A thick weight settled on her chest, and she forced herself to breathe. “No,” she whispered. “No.” The papers slid from her hands as she pushed away from the desk and ran back to her bedroom. Scrabbling furiously, she dug boxes from the bottom of her closet until she got to the fireproof container where she kept all her personal papers. Sitting on the floor, she pulled the box into her lap. Her hands shook as she dialed through the combination on the lock and snapped open the top.

  She rustled through everything. Hers and Lily’s wills, their birth certificates, the death certificates of their parents, insurance policies, her real passport…but her Social Security card was missing.

  What had he done? All the paperwork pointed toward a man who was planning to disappear, but then there was that passport with her picture. Why? Why bring me into it? Was he going to ask me to join him?

  Or was he framing me?

  Maggie dropped the lid shut, and it locked with a solid click.

  Then she heard a second click, more distant. Then footsteps.

  Shoving the box aside, Maggie got up and went to her door. “Tim?” she called out.

  The footsteps started to run.

  Screaming Ray’s name, Maggie flew toward the main room, her feet slipping when they met water on the hardwood floor. Her rear hit the floor hard as the officer and Tim bounded into the room. She pointed toward the back door, which was banging open with the wind. Spray from the storm had spread over the floor.

  Ray went to the door, peering out, then securing it. Tim rushed to help Maggie up. She looked wildly at both of them. “Didn’t you hear someone running?”

  They looked at each other. Tim stroked her arm. “No, ma’am. I had just gone out before it started raining. I’m sorry. I must not have latched the door good.”

  “I heard someone running!” she insisted.

  Tim shook his head. “You must have just heard me and the door. I’ve been kinda antsy tonight. Been up walking about some.”

  Maggie’s shoulders drooped. “I called your name.”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t hear you. Sorry.”

  Maggie rubbed her eyes, then brushed her hair back. “I don’t believe this.”

  Tim squeezed her hand. “Miss Maggie, you’ve been through a lot. I don’t wonder that you’re a bit on edge. You need to get some rest and not be wandering about so.”

  She nodded, then shivered as a chill settled in her bones. Maybe she hadn’t heard the running footsteps. The house had always made funny noises, especially at night as the temperature dropped. She turned back toward the hall. Between that and Fletcher sneaking up on her so much lately, maybe she was just being skitt—

  Maggie stopped, her head tilting sideways as she studied the bar. The room was streaked with long shadows. With the storm outside, the only lights came from the two hallways, but this time, Maggie knew she was not imagining things.

  The letters from Lily’s stalker were gone.

  THIRTEEN

  “People don’t always know what they know,” Judson explained.

  They were on their way to interview the best friend of the victim’s neighbor. Lee thought it was a waste of time.

  Judson disagreed. “Most civilians aren’t trained as detectives. They have no idea what’s important and what isn’t. Yet they see and take in some of the most amazing things. I’ve broken a lot of cases on tidbits that people didn’t even know were tidbits.”

  Fletcher stepped away from the train, rolling his shoulders as he threaded his way through the crowd in Penn Station, glad to get his feet on the ground again. He’d slept little on the long trip through the darkness. Fifteen years in New York and he still hated the train, which amazed the few friends he had. He never tried to explain it, figuring it was pretty much no one’s business anyway, and knowing that if he did, Judson might suddenly develop a fear of rail travel as an explanation for his need of well-kept cars.

  He sniffed and stretched his neck again as he waved down a cab. Once inside, Fletcher sat back, watching the street scenes flash by as he organized his thoughts, deciding on which questioning tactic to take with Edward. The meeting with the manager was at ten, which gave Fletcher time to go to his apartment, shower and find one of the few suits that had been recently dry-cleaned. Fletcher grinned, remembering the look that Maggie had given him and his suit when he’d plopped down on the ground beside her that first day. And a few times since. It wasn’t his intention to come off as slovenly, but he’d discovered over the past few days that he liked surprising her, in whatever way that happened.

  His apartment smelled like soured Moo Shu Pork. Gagging, Fletcher opened several windows and turned on the air-conditioner fan. Finding the offending carton, he dumped it in the hallway incinerator, then spritzed his cologne throughout the four small rooms where he lived. The odor was less eye-watering by the time he had finished his shower and shave, but he was glad to leave again.

  In the second cab, Fletcher focused more on the storefronts that blurred by as the driver dodged his way toward the theater district. Although it wasn’t even Thanksgiving yet, Christmas decorations filled the windows, reminding passersby that now was time to buy or layaway, don’t wait too long for the latest…whatever. But it was normal for this time of year. Normal for New York.

  A New York that would never see Aaron again. Fletcher rubbed the back of his neck, trying to push away the thought.

  “Open it,” Aaron demanded, a broad, enthusiastic grin on his face. He held out a large, beautifully wrapped box toward the younger man, motioning for him to take it.

  Fletcher stepped away from his door and mo
tioned for Aaron to come in. “It’s two in the morning, Aaron.”

  “It’s Christmas, me boyo! What are you doing asleep?” Aaron came in, the red-and-white Santa hat on his head tippingprecariously. He grabbed it and shoved it back down over his hair. Passing by Fletcher, he sat the box on a table and dropped a huge stuffed sack into one of the chairs.

  “What are you doing upright and walking?” Fletcher asked. “Shouldn’t you be passed out under Korie’s table, snoozing in wait for Santa?”

  Aaron straightened his hat again. “Ah, don’t bring my beautiful bride into this. She’s not in the giving mood tonight, like most nights.” He laughed. “She prefers Valentine’s Day, even if she doesn’t appreciate what she’s given. Besides,” he whispered conspiratorially, “I’m not even drunk.” He made a broad motion toward the box. “Open it, my dear Judson!”

  Fletcher winced. It was not a good memory, of Aaron or Christmas, and Fletcher now realized it was when he’d first noticed that Aaron wasn’t his usual self. The giving, laughing Aaron he knew so well had developed a vengeful streak. The sack of gifts, intended for Korie, had later been returned to the stores, and Aaron had canceled her accounts at four major department stores. The fight had been minor; Aaron had escalated it into a two-week battle.

  So what did Edward do to get fired? Fletcher checked the knot on his tie as he entered the polished lobby. Fletcher knew all too well that being neater didn’t improve the quality of his suit, but he wanted Edward to focus on his questions, not his image. He’d met the wiry manager at a couple of gatherings Aaron had dragged him to, and Fletcher’s impression was that Edward was a straightforward professional who gave “efficiency” a new definition. This was confirmed by Edward’s greeting of “I’m ready to get to the bottom of this,” as he ushered Fletcher into an office that was well organized and masculine, with a heavy cherry desk and coordinating credenza and shelves and a lingering smell of cigars and imported French Roast. “Coffee?” he asked.

  Fletcher shook his head and sat in a chair with clean lines and polished leather. He reached for his pad and pen as Edward pushed aside the one sign that he worked here, a thin notebook and several sheets of paper. Edward leaned forward, his hands folded on the desk. “Aaron fired me about six months ago, to answer your first question.”

  Fletcher’s eyebrows arched. That was not his first question, but he let it ride. “Did he give you a good reason?”

  Edward hesitated. “A reason, yes. A good one, no.” He sat a bit straighter. “He told me he wanted to take over the management of his finances, wanted more control of where everything was going.”

  “You didn’t consider that a good reason?”

  “How long have you known Aaron, Fletcher?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  “Ever known him to be smart with money?”

  “Only when it came to the retreat.”

  “Exactly.” Edward leaned back in his chair. “He was an idiot. That’s why he hired me in the first place. I did everything for him, in terms of his finances. Investments, shelters, I even paid his household bills.”

  “So why do you think he did it?”

  Edward stood up suddenly and went to the credenza, pouring himself more coffee. Fletcher was silent. The money manager drank, staring out his window at the Manhattan skyline. After a moment, he set the cup back on its silver tray and went to a wooden filing cabinet behind his desk. He removed a folder, then sat back at the desk. He pushed the folder at Fletcher, who opened it slowly.

  “About seven months ago,” Edward said quietly, “Aaron asked me to set up an offshore account for him. I’ve seen his prenuptial. I assumed it was to hide money from Korie, who was beginning to seriously drain his resources. Late last year, she had brought me a notarized statement from Aaron, authorizing me to close out one of his mutual fund portfolios and give her the money.”

  Fletcher remained calm. “For what?”

  “She wanted to open a gallery.”

  “Did you?”

  Edward shook his head. “Aaron had already been complaining to me about how much money she’d pulled from their liquid accounts. I told her I’d have to verify it with Aaron in person, and she stormed out. That girl can make quite a scene.”

  Fletcher sniffed. Click. “Is that when Aaron wanted the offshore account?”

  “Yes. He had already set up a direct deposit system with his publisher for the royalty payments. He simply changed the bank to the one in the islands.”

  “Did you know anything about him mortgaging his house?”

  Edward nodded. “He told me that Korie had tried the same thing with the bank—to get a mortgage—that she had with me. So Aaron mortgaged everything he had—his apartment here, his house, the place in L.A.—everything but the retreat, which is run by a trust and not part of the personal finances or covered by the prenuptial.”

  “So only the trustees have access to the money in escrow.”

  “Yes. If it were set up as a business, Korie would still be eligible to inherit half. As a trust, it’s protected.”

  “Who are the trustees?”

  “Originally, Aaron, me, his lawyer and Maggie.” Edward paused and threaded his fingers together. “Maggie doesn’t know this, or I’m fairly sure she doesn’t. Aaron took steps to protect the retreat, during his life and after. He consulted with me about the financial end of it, and he and his lawyer set it up so that it’s specifically excluded from the prenup and handled separately from the rest of his property in the will. In addition, everything he has, except for monthly operating expenses, will now be channeled into the retreat’s trust, with enough legal beagling to make sure Korie won’t be able to touch it, even if she decides to contest his will. He put the operating money offshore, and set up with the bank there to make direct payments to the mortgage companies. His plan was to keep her away from as much money as he could.”

  “Why didn’t he just sell the properties?”

  “He couldn’t without violating the prenup. As long as they were married, he couldn’t sell without her permission. He could, however, get a mortgage on them without her signature. And he really didn’t want to give them up. He just wanted to keep her from getting the money that was invested in them.”

  “Why couldn’t she get a mortgage?”

  “Because she’s a ditz. She had no idea he’d mortgaged the property, so she went to their local back in Mercer, trying to get one. He’d already warned them that she might try. They were his friends, not hers, but they did tell her they wouldn’t risk a mortgage on a house already deep in debt. Aaron’s mortgage is with a private lender in Arkansas.”

  “How did she take it?”

  Edward was silent, but the message in his eyes was clear.

  Fletcher nodded. “Got it. So why do you think he fired you?”

  The older man cleared his throat. “I didn’t just work for Aaron. I have a roster of clients that would make a taboid reporter salivate. But we were also friends, and had been for more than twenty years. I don’t think he wanted me involved.”

  “Why?”

  Edward shifted in his chair and his voice dropped, marking the shift from business to personal. “I don’t know if you had noticed, but Aaron’s behavior had become a little…odd lately.”

  “Odd how?”

  Edward’s silence stretched out, but Fletcher had been a cop many years. He waited. Edward finally sniffed. “I need to make some calls before I explain what I know. But I can tell you that Aaron was about to take actions that were not going to be exactly legal, and he no longer cared about his own risks.” He took a deep breath. “Aaron Jackson was getting ready to disappear.”

  Fletcher believed him. Edward was a good man; Aaron had always spoken highly of his old friend, and Fletcher knew that Edward had bailed the gnarly author out of more than one financial scrape. It gave Korie a clear motive for murder, and Fletcher knew she was quite capable of whacking Aaron upside the head with a champagne bottle. But it gnawed at him that no
one had heard anything that night. Not Maggie, who was in the kitchen, nor Tim, who was in a bedroom that overlooked the backyard. Korie could make a scene, and she was loud when she did it. Quietly murdering her husband didn’t seem her style.

  Still, Fletcher knew all too well that anything was possible when passion and money were involved. Especially passion for money.

  Pausing in the lobby, Fletcher took out his cell phone. Korie answered on the second ring, and Fletcher winced at the noise in the background. “When’s Aaron’s service?” he asked, without preamble.

  Korie had to shout. “Fletcher? Is that you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry, I’m at O’Toole’s. Lunch. What did you say?”

  “Service. When? Where?”

  “Oh. Tomorrow. Saturday. Around eight in the evening. At his publisher’s. They have a huge reception area for company functions. There’ll be a guard to let everyone in. It’s going to be huge. The Times is paying for part of it, and I called the Daily News. They are even sending some people to cover it.”

  Of course she had. As Fletcher hung up, he thought he could hear Aaron laughing.

  FOURTEEN

  “Are you going?” Maggie asked Lily, handing her a cup of Earl Grey. She plopped down on the couch next to her sister and drew her feet up under her, then sipped from her own cup.

  Since Lily’s arrival at the retreat, they had spent a lot of mornings like this, curled together on the large, comfy sofa, sharing one afghan, drinking tea, and firming up the sister-bond between them. For Maggie, it was the perfect location and the perfect time of day, with the morning sun beginning to heat the room and illuminating it with long steaks of dusty, glowing rays. Some days, when she was busy watering the houseplants, Maggie would spritz the rays with water, watching as tiny rainbows danced for a second or two in the air.